


Alone Again Or

by HaydiveRoyale



Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: 1960s, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Friends to Lovers, Homophobic Language, M/M, Season/Series 06
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-20
Updated: 2020-07-20
Packaged: 2021-03-05 00:29:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,518
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25405414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HaydiveRoyale/pseuds/HaydiveRoyale
Summary: Tonight, Morse was halfway through a bottle of scotch and three quarters in “das Lied von der Erde" when the wolves did indeed come circling.
Relationships: Endeavour Morse/Jim Strange
Comments: 7
Kudos: 27





	Alone Again Or

**Author's Note:**

> Title from the song of the same name by 60's psychedelic rock band Love.

_Ein voller Becher Weins zur rechten Zeit_

_Ist mehr wert, als alle Reiche dieser Erde!_

_Dunkel ist das Leben, ist der Tod!_

_A full glass of wine at the proper moment_

_is worth more than all the riches of this world!_

_Dark is life, is death._

From "das Trinklied vom Jammer der Erde", Gustav Mahler 

Tonight, Morse was halfway through a bottle of scotch and three quarters in “das Lied von der Erde" when the wolves did indeed come circling. Mahler's bitter irony echoed deeply inside him, and all he had to dull and drown those feelings was his cheap booze. The music created his thoughts, and the scotch destroyed them. And there was Morse, caught in the dialectic carnage of his misery, the thesis and antithesis with no synthesis (and hadn't he always been sceptic of idealism as Hegel presented it, Morse knew there is no resolution, none whatsoever)

He swallowed the contents of his glass, angry that he still was thinking in these terms.

On cue, “der Trunkene im Frühling” started playing, and Morse groaned, rubbing his eyes. The first aria had already dangerously tipped the balance between drink and music, but this one hit much closer to home.

_Was geht mich denn der Frühling an?_

_Lasst mich betrunken sein!_

At twenty Morse had started drinking to mend his broken heart, and spring went by without him noticing. It was a beer and rye one after the other that started off every evening, and a tumble into an unmade bed that ended it.

When Thursday had convinced him to drink that first pint with him, he had thought he was initiating a teetotaling green PC to his world of world-weary coppers, when Morse had been wearied of the world for a very long time. It was Morse who, faced with a pint of bitter, decided that he wasn't twenty and heartbroken anymore, and a drink every once in a while wouldn't hurt. He was wrong, and he knew that this time around he couldn't join the army and sober up, this time the drink had him and wouldn't let go. The one thing he had promised himself was that it would never get in the way of his work, and to keep that promise he was ready to fight his own demons.

The problem was that no matter his good intentions, things always were out of his control, and in the control of shady freemasonry members that kept the police in their pockets like spare change. He clenched his teeth, pouring another generous measure of scotch.

No one was spared, Morse thought grimly. Not even Thursday, the one man he thought he was always going to be able to trust, had been dragged down to their level, submissive and beaten like an old dog who's had his day, and now involved in their evil bidding, in what extent Morse wasn't sure he wanted to know. He had been losing Thursday for years, he knew; the beatings of suspects, the bribing that he brushed of as a necessary evil to grease the wheels of justice. But after all was said and done, Morse knew that the man had his heart in the right place. Now, he wasn't so sure.

He drank, and the Sopranstimme soared in “ _der_ _Abschied_ ", and his next room neighbour banged furiously on the thin drywall that separated them, and suddenly he couldn't take it anymore. He got out with no coat, wallet or keys, and without turning off the record player. Let that prick hear the remaining twenty minutes of the record loud and clear, he thought.

He might learn something about music.

***

Strange got home so late even the mangy drunks who usually hung around the building until the small hours of the morning had already gone home, or wherever they slept, anyways. He banged the kettle on the gas and gathered a few bread crusts to make a sandwich, chastising himself for having yet again forgotten to go to the shops. It didn't do to neglect one's wellbeing, it didn't help any, Jim told himself. Truth was, he was growing more and more frustrated as the days went by. In his mind the affair had been relatively simple: get assigned to a committee with the right kind of jurisdiction and authority, get every ex-city man in the same place, investigate undisturbed. He hadn't counted on a spanner in the works as massive as detective chief inspector Ronnie Box.

He not only made things harder for Strange by denying him documents and information, giving him hell in Morse's transfer and generally being an uncooperative arsehole, but now he had started pushing for cases related to Jim's inquires to be closed and buried, destroying every chance of him getting new leads for what concerned the truth about Fancy's killer. Jim knew why Box did it, but he wasn't _sure._ He didn't run with that lot, it would mean compromising himself too far even for an undercover job, and those people aren't sodding Eddie Nero, these people have the means to get away with anything. All he could do was guess, and guess he did.

It was ridiculous that with all Box did, all the grief he'd given him, still the worst thing, the thing that Jim resented him the most for, was the way he treated Morse. Dismissive, patronizing, as if the young sergeant were an idiot child to be indulged. “What's he gotten in that head of his this time" his expression would say when Morse presented him with a lead, even if his leads proved correct every single time.

Humiliating Morse had become Box and Jago's main hobby, and if Jim knew Morse, he was only pretending to be unfazed by their constant mocking, letting the anger and mortification build up like a mountain that he had to climb every day in order to do his job.

That morning they had waited for him to be in Thursdays’ office, typing out a report, to start on him again, ensuring to speak loudly enough for Morse to hear them.

“What d'you reckon the E stands for?” Jago had asked, clearly spoiling for cruelty at Morse's expense.

“Exasperating, as far as I'm concerned.”

Jago laughed. Good one boss, great entertainment, that.

“Embarrassment", countered Jago

“Eyesore", said Box, warming up to the game

“Effeminate”, said Jago, looking very pleased with himself.

“What, with that moustache? Would make for a pretty ugly bird"

Jago laughed dutifully. “Oh, I don't know, Ronnie, I've seen you knock around with worse”

“that was your mother you saw me with"

A crossfire of affectionate epithets followed, and for a moment Strange hoped they had moved on from Morse.

“Really, though. Reckon he might be."

“What, bent?”

“Sure would explain a lot, with the way he behaves."

Strange, with his vantage point near the door of Thursday's office, could see Morse tensing up, but making a point to keep on typing, clacking the keys a tad too violently.

“Why, you want a go?” Box had finally said, and Jago had laughed.

“Shut up, you silly cunt" and an elbow to the ribs and then they were shoving off, laughter and quips becoming fainter as they left the room.

Jim had wanted nothing more than to tell them to back off, leave Morse alone, wipe the smirks right off their ugly mugs. But what good could have come of that, especially seen what they were implicating? He would have become Morse’s _protector,_ and if they ever found out he was the one to have gotten Morse transferred to Castle Gate he would never hear the end of it, and that was the last thing he needed. He would have become the one they asked “Why, you want a go?” and the problem was, he didn’t know that he would be able to deny it convincingly enough.

The kettle whistled, shaking Jim forcibly out of his musings, and he turned off the gas. He was trying to devise a way to make all bits of crust stick together in what at least resembled a sandwich when he heard a faint knocking coming from his front door. He couldn’t fathom who it could possibly be, outside maybe one of the winos come to ask to borrow a tenner. Wouldn’t be the first time, Strange thought.

He opened the door, prepared to shoo away whoever was on the other side in order to go back to his Frankenstein of a dinner, but instead of the Steptoe kind of character he expected to see on the other side of the door he found a shivering, glaring Morse.

“Took your time” he ground out before brushing past Jim and into the flat.

Strange stood on the doorway for a moment, still catching up to this new turn of events. Morse hadn’t visited him once ever since he had moved out, despite Jim’s invitations, and Jim certainly wasn’t expecting him to turn up unannounced well after midnight on a work night. Jim closed the door and made his way towards the living room, where he found Morse helping himself to some of his good whisky, the one he only kept for guests.

“Make yourself at home, why don’t you” Jim said crossing his arms over his chest critically.

“What? Oh, sorry. Force of habit” Morse grimaced, putting the bottle down.

Jim took a moment to actually look at the man. He was in his shirtsleeves, hair dishevelled and damp from the fog of the cold Autumn night. He didn’t seem too sure as to why he was where he was.

“Did you _walk_ all that way? With no coat on?” Jim asked, astonished.

Morse shivered again, shrugging.

“ _Why_?”

“You’re right, this was a mistake. I’ll just…”

“No, no. You’re going nowhere, matey.” Jim took up a blanket from the couch and gestured for Morse to sit down. He did so, looking slightly chastised, and Strange wrapped the blanket around him, tucking it between him and the couch. Morse stayed where he was, looking stubbornly at his hands. Suddenly Jim realized what was going on.

“Are you drunk?” asked Jim, cringing internally at the way he said it, like a nagging wife.

Morse shrugged again “I _was_ drunk.”

Jim had to agree with him, he didn’t look that far gone, his eyes too focused, his diction faultless, but there was still something in the way he held himself that to Jim was a dead giveaway.

Morse had an incredible resistance to alcohol; bloke drank like a fish and still it was pretty rare to see him drunk, this despite him having no meat on his bones, must be the Irish blood he got from his mother's side that Morse had once told him about, Jim thought.

Once, after that French bird had dumped him to go and take pictures of blokes being blown to bits in ‘Nam, Strange had found him cradling a glass in a pub near the station, looking four sheets to the wind, and he had stayed with him to insure he got home safe. On the way back Morse had thrown up the gallon of alcohol he had ingested into a wheelie bin, and by the time they had reached the flat he was almost completely sober, only a slight hunch to his posture and a dazed look in his eyes left of the previous blind intoxication. Must be what happened tonight, too. Either that, or the cold had been enough to shock him out of it.

Morse had stopped shivering, and tried to reach for the whisky glass again.

“A-ah. You’ve had enough for tonight, matey. Wouldn’t want you keeling over.” Jim stopped him, moving the glass away from him.

“I’m perfectly alright” Morse said, irritated, but didn’t try to pick up the glass again.

Jim knew he was alright to drink more, but maybe that was his problem. Maybe it was because the drink almost never had him stumbling, embarrassing himself that he could fall back on it so easily any time something was ailing him, skipping that phase of shame and self-loathing that is typical of alcoholics, and that sometimes got them to quit. Maybe he needed someone to keep him from the drink, because he didn’t have the natural reaction to it, the one that keeps you well away from booze the days after a wild New Year’s party hangover. Maybe Jim only hated seeing him like this, all hunched up and confused, like a wounded animal that would bare its teeth at you if you tried to help it.

“I’ve made tea, if you like.” Strange said, trying for hospitality now that geniality had gone out the window, as it often did with Morse.

“Alright” Morse answered, looking indifferent to Jim’s peace offering.

Strange went to the kitchen to pour two cups out from the battered aluminium kettle, and upon returning he found that Morse had shrugged the blanket off and rolled up his sleeves like suddenly he’d found himself in the middle of a Saharan heatwave. He looked a complete mess, Jim thought. The moustache, especially paired with the bleary eyes and clothes that looked like they'd been slept in failed to give him any semblance of authority and instead made him achieve the look of some beatnik burnout, or some easy rider type character, something right out of a Jack Kerouac book, skinny and mean like a stray dog, and clever. Give him a pair of sunglasses and a beret and he'll blend right in with that crowd, Jim thought, barely suppressing a smile.

“There you go” he said, passing a steaming mug to the other detective, which was accepted but promptly put down on the tabletop.

“So, to what do I owe the pleasure?”

“I just... I needed to see a friendly face, is all"

“Oh" Jim said eloquently “Well, I'm glad that you think of me as a friendly face"

“Everyone else is plotting my demise, so, you know"

Jim closed his mouth, recognizing that arguing with him just now would be like trying to get blood from a stone.

Morse’s gaze was focused on Jim’s radio, which was reproducing the faint notes of a generic night programme. Living with him, Strange had learned Morse's habits and tastes, and he knew that it was a misconception that the man hated everything that wasn't classical music. He didn't mind when Jim put on jazz or some older blues, the kind you used to get over the radio when it was still called wireless, Robert Johnson who had sold his soul to the devil, BB King and the like. Morse scoffed at most pop music but only got openly hostile with some artists, although Jim had never figured out the pattern for that one. He only knew that he was going to get glared at six ways to Sunday if he dared put on anything by Herman's Hermits, Engelbert Humperdinck or, woe betide him, Cliff Richard. Luckily the radio was playing an unobtrusive jazz suite, so that at least couldn't give Morse any grounds to be more irritated than he already looked.

Abruptly, Jim remembered what he had been thinking about right before Morse had knocked, and he felt guilty at not realizing before that maybe today’s episode had been what had caused this rotten mood in the other man, the drinking. It would have in Strange, the constant hostility, never being able to have his way, the derision. Jim felt the need to apologize, at least to test the waters as to what had gotten into him.

“Look, matey... I'm sorry about today. I should've said something.”

Morse looked confused for a moment, then he said “oh, that" and shrugged. “Don't worry about it. I’m used to it by now." he said with a grim kind of resignation.

“Yeah, but you shouldn't be, should you? You don't deserve that, Morse" Jim felt a strangely strong and poignant kind of anger making its way up his chest.

“You're a good bloke, matey. You deserve their respect.”

“It's not really about what we deserve in this life, though, is it?"

“Be that as it may.”

“It doesn't _matter_ , Jim. We have much bigger problems on our hands than their childish nonsense, for God's sakes.”

“But it does matter. _You_ matter. You're better than all of them, all of _us_ put together"

There was a moment of silence, and Jim rubbed a hand over his face, chasing away the sentiment that threatened to overspill. Blimey, where had _that_ come from?

When he opened his eyes again, something in Morse's expression had changed, softened somehow. Only his eyes were still inquisitive, searching.

“Thank you" he said quietly, for once accepting a compliment the way it was meant.

Strange felt the sudden and not unprecedented need to reach out to him, hold him, because for all the brains and guts and thorns he had, the man always managed to look so vulnerable, so lonely. He took a half step forward, stopping dead in his tracks when he realized what he was doing. What the longing guiding his movements really was.

Just as he was fighting the urge to get closer to him, Morse rose from the sofa with a rare, fluid kind of grace. Then, before Jim could understand what was happening Morse was kissing him.

The surprise and the drink made him slow to react, and too soon the other man was drawing back, looking ready for a beating. If not for anything else, Jim snapped himself out of it to reassure Morse. Would have made him into a massive hypocrite, not to mention a massive bellend to leave him hanging now because he was afraid and he didn't know what he was doing.

So, he reached out like he'd wanted to do before, encircling the other man's waist and burying a hand in messy auburn hair. He felt Morse's hands coming up to clutch clumsily at the back of Jim's shirt, like a drowning man that finally gets to a piece of driftwood. It felt _right_ , Jim realized, with that feeling of fondness closing up his throat once more. It felt like the only real thing that had happened to him in months.

He was the one to initiate the kiss this time, countering his calm and steadiness to Morse's hunger, his grasping need. Morse followed his lead, slowing down and sighing softly when they broke apart. His beautiful blue eyes were wide, still searching, still asking silently. Then he took Jim's hand and led him back towards the couch. Jim sat down beside him, once more uncertain as to what he was supposed to do. Avoiding the other man's too-intense eyes, Strange leaned over and picked up Morse's discarded whisky glass, draining the contents to gather his courage, but as he did this he felt one of Morse's deft, clever hands inching its way up his thigh and coming to rest lightly on his crotch.

Strange almost choked on the whisky, and definitely choked a little when he looked back at the other detective and was met with a playful, suggestive gaze. He didn't have time to linger on this new, surprising side of his friend, because then Morse was tugging Jim's trousers open, and sliding his hand beneath his pants. Strange sucked in a breath as Morse started stroking him, his grasp still loose, teasing.

Jim felt like he was going to combust if he kept this up for much longer.

“Christ, matey, have mercy on a man"

Morse got the hint and freed his cock from his trousers, keeping him firmly in hand before licking his lips and bending down to take him into his mouth. Jim made a sound like he's been sucker-punched, lifting a hand to rest on Morse's tangled hair, carding his fingers through it. He didn't seem to mind, so Jim kept his hand there, pulling on russet locks when Morse did something with his tongue or teeth Jim wasn't expecting. Just as he was getting close to the edge, Morse gave his cockhead a quick, parting lick and straightened up again, making Jim groan out loud.

The other man kissed him apologetically, then took him back in hand. Jim didn't feel as close as before, but it was enough for Morse to scatter a few small, hard kisses to his neck to have his arousal flaring back up, and after a clever twist of a thin wrist and a broad tongue swiping up Jim's jaw to his ear Jim was coming, an orgasm that felt knee-buckling even if he was sitting down.

Morse wiped his hand on Jim's trousers in an uncharacteristically uncouth way, and huffed out a laugh at whatever expression passed on Jim's face. One of awe, possibly. 

As Jim came back to his senses, he realized he probably should reciprocate, and as Morse kissed him again, once again urgent and demanding, Jim put his hand between his legs, feeling clumsy and out of his depth. He realized that the angle wasn't ideal, after all he wasn't as agile as the other man. He tugged him closer, a motion that Morse took as an invitation to climb into Jim's lap. Jim felt an echo of his earlier lust at the feeling of a flushed, aroused Morse pressing up against him, _on_ him, and he finally felt ready to give him that courtesy. He _wanted_ to, he realized with a start. He wanted another man, even if it was a man as waifish and beautiful as Morse, and the thought should have scared him. It didn’t.

Jim worked on Morse's shirt buttons, dead set on making this more than just two mates consoling each other in lack of a better alternative, fumbling around like teenagers. He kissed milky white skin as it was exposed, he eased the shirt off Morse's thin shoulders and sucked love marks on the base of his elegant neck, his chest. Morse clung to Strange's shoulders, breathing erratically, one hand fisting in his hair as the other man lowered his head to bite on a pink nipple, breath hitching when Jim’s hand found the other nipple under his shirt and started rubbing it while swirling his tongue around the one in his mouth.

“Jim, please" Morse murmured, fingers clenching and unclenching on the cotton of the other man's polo shirt.

Strange obliged, sneaking a hand into his trousers, disbelieving of how hard the other man was already, without even having been touched. Foreplay had never done much for Jim, it was only a formality, something to get a girl in the mood; he couldn't have imagined a bloke could be so... responsive.

He looped an arm around Morse's narrow waist, hand clutching the too-prominent jut of a hipbone, and set a steady rhythm with the other hand.

Morse’s head dropped, and he started panting like he was running a marathon, a burning flush creeping up his neck, painting his cheeks a fetching pink. Then he was leaning forward, seeking Jim's lips, and Jim brought both hands up to hold him, running his hands up and down Morse's lithe body. He felt thin in his arms, ribs like a greyhound, joints so delicate they were almost feminine; but not frail. He had a deceptive kind of strength, Jim felt it in his clutching fingers, his gripping thighs.

Morse dropped his head to mouth at Strange's neck, begging him silently. Jim brought his hand back around his cock, and as the other man leant away from him again he went back to sucking and kissing the porcelain skin left exposed by the shirt. One of his hands was still exploring the other's body, now brushing against a sensitive inner thigh, now gripping a hip, now cupping his arse, encouraging him to inch even closer.

He bit Morse's collarbone, and the man let out a pained whine that was more high-pitched than any sound Jim had ever heard him produce. Interestingly enough, this was what seemed to do the trick for him, and soon he was coming hot and slick between Jim's fingers, supressing a groan against Jim's shoulder.

Morse collapsed against him, and Jim wrapped his hands around him, carding his fingers through the hair at his nape as Morse breathed warmly against his neck. After a while Jim nudged him off gently, and as Morse went back to his spot on the couch Jim went to retrieve the crumpled packet of cigarettes that he had stashed away in a drawer for such occasions.

He sat back down and lit up, and Morse watched him curiously. “Didn't know you smoked"

“Ah, you know", Jim shrugged. “You're not going to tell me that these things will kill me, are you?”

“Think if I smoke enough I might be spared from having to spend tomorrow morning rotting in a basement?” Morse asked, raising his eyebrows.

“It's unlikely"

“there go my plans for the evening"

There's the Morse Strange knew and loved, self-deprecating smile and gallows humour back in their rightful place.

Jim offered him the pack and Morse took one, zippo lighting up his face briefly as he lit it.

Morse sat back, bringing the cigarette to his lips and folding his legs elegantly. Jim watched him openly, admiring his dishevelled appearance. His autumn-coloured hair was sticking out in all directions, and his earlier flush was still there, making him look ten years younger.

Morse caught him staring and gave him a smile that echoed the earlier one, playful and fox-like, all curling soft lips and glittering blue eyes.

Jim’s heart skipped a beat, and he had to look away.

He wanted to say something, needed to say something, to ask him what had got him stumbling here in the deep of night, reassure him that this was alright, that they were alright, but he was afraid to ruin everything, send Morse back to hiding inside his armour of aloofness and irritation.

The moment passed, and then Morse was standing up, stubbing the cigarette out of the windowsill.

“I should go” he said stopping in front of where Jim was still sitting. “I'll just borrow a coat and then I'll be out of your hair.”

He made to turn away, but Jim caught his wrist, still unable to express all that was on his mind, but unwilling to let Morse get away now that Jim finally had him where he wanted him.

“Stay” Jim said, a little too desperately for his own taste, but Morse, after a first moment of surprised silence, nodded.

“All right”

***

“I couldn't have gone back anyway, I've locked myself out" Morse told him later, as they laid in bed listening to the light pattering sound the rain made against the window.

“You shouldn't be allowed to live by yourself, matey, you're a danger to yourself and others"

Morse laughed warmly against his neck and curled closer to him, clinging to him in a way that again made Jim think of a drowning man with a lifeline. Jim found he didn't mind being that for him.


End file.
